


dream a little dream of me

by hamiltrashed



Series: The Room Where It Happens [2]
Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: (But only sort of barebacking), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Anal Sex, Barebacking, M/M, Sex, The dreams that you dare to dream really do come true, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 16:18:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6431464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamiltrashed/pseuds/hamiltrashed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On his back across Jefferson's desk is exactly where Hamilton has always wanted to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dream a little dream of me

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is not _the_ promised sequel, but I swear that it's in the works. However, I've decided to write a series of three interludes between the first fic and the Actual Proper Sequel™. So not to worry. It's coming. ;)

Hamilton tries not to be loud. His teeth sink into his bottom lip, and for just a second, he goes silent but for the air forcing its way out of his lungs in the form of gasps; he bites back a groan and feels it catching like a stutter at the back of his throat. And then he whimpers, fucking _whimpers_ as if the way his back is arching is not embarrassing enough already, as if the way his shoulders are breaking out in goosebumps just from the pleasure of it all isn’t causing him to blush.

Jefferson smiles down at him, laughs a wicked laugh and Hamilton would not be surprised to find that he’s possessed by a demon, some lustful thing that owns his body the way Jefferson is owning Hamilton’s. Because that’s definitely the word – owning. Hamilton has bite marks, _claiming_ marks all along his collarbones, little red-purple bruises all over his hips from Jefferson’s lips and fingertips, and every bit of the soft, sensitive flesh between his quivering thighs is smarting from stubble raked across it when Jefferson hiked Hamilton’s legs over his shoulders and ate his ass so good that he’s still seeing stars.

And he _smells_ like Jefferson now, too, like expensive cologne and something musky and masculine and heavy that makes his head swim. It’s all over him, the scent of this man that he keeps trying to hate – but the best and worst of it is that Jefferson is fucking him right now like he was born for this and only this. The way he rolls his hips is art, the way his fingers dance along Hamilton’s chest (roughly pinching a nipple now and then) is poetry, and the way he hits the right spot on every thrust like he wrote the map to Hamilton’s body is nothing short of fucking _cosmic_.

The intimacy of Jefferson’s first name is on Hamilton’s tongue before he can stop it, a softly hissed _Thomas_ that makes Jefferson look smug, as if Hamilton’s use of his given name is giving up something more than he’s already given. But oh, it sounds good said this way. It doesn’t sound like the name of a man who outwits Hamilton, a man who only gives when he expects something back, a man who fucks him because he can, to say he did, to mark a notch in a bedpost. It sounds just like music, and Hamilton says it like a hymn, over and over – Thomas, Thomas, Thomas – interspersed with silent pleas for this to be something it isn’t, for this to be pure and romantic and lush like summer rainstorms.

But that’s no way to conduct himself here; Hamilton’s supplication only goes so far and he will not throw himself at Jefferson’s feet and beg to be loved, to be treated as more than Jefferson’s twice weekly fuck toy. No, the only things he begs for here are for Jefferson to use his body just a little more, to own him just a little harder, to fuck him until he can’t sit or walk or stand or move at all. Those things Jefferson will give willingly, gladly if it means he has firsthand knowledge of just how needy Hamilton really is.

And god, the way Hamilton needs him. Needs this. His back is rising away from the desk again, Jefferson’s hands trailing up along his sides like a compass tracing an arc. Hamilton turns his head away, but Jefferson reaches over, turns it back. He doesn’t have to tell Hamilton to watch him, to look at him for Hamilton to know that’s what he wants. Because he knows he has Hamilton braced right on the edge now, and he’s hungry for the look in Hamilton’s eyes when he comes. He’s looking for Hamilton’s eyes to cloud up, to go hazy when the lightning strikes, like he says they always do. He’s looking to take whatever bit of soul Hamilton shows in his eyes when they roll back for just a second and then slide into focus on Jefferson. He’s looking for the things he knows deep down that Hamilton feels.

Hamilton is loath to give these things away every time, but he cannot stop himself. Just as he cannot stop himself now when Jefferson’s thumb teases the head of his cock, when one hand on Hamilton’s hip stops him from bucking them upward and fucking into his hand. Just as he cannot stop himself when he grips the edge of the desk and grinds back against Jefferson’s dick, buried so deep in him that he feels the intensity of the fullness in every inch of him. Just as he cannot stop himself when Jefferson swipes precome from the tip of Hamilton’s cock and mercilessly strokes at the underside.

It takes Hamilton over suddenly just then – orgasm. He can’t tell if it starts in his toes or his fingertips or at the base of his spine or somewhere else altogether. All he knows is the rush of gratification, the sudden and unsympathetic tide that bears him along on its waves, floating and drowning all at once. And Jefferson is still fucking him through it; every time the thick head of his prick hammers home, it’s a fresh and utterly savage aftershock, fraying every nerve ending and refusing to tie them all back together. It’s only seconds, maybe a half minute at most, but it feels like an hour of lying there with every part of him aflame.

And then, almost as abruptly, Jefferson comes, too. His hips snap forward one last time and he fills Hamilton even more completely than he already has, a sudden flood of warmth that makes Hamilton’s toes curl, that would have made him come if he hadn’t already. And then Jefferson is pulling free of Hamilton, and Hamilton is letting his legs drop from around his waist, fall open on the desk. And Hamilton knows he looks like a slut, lying here on Jefferson’s desk, thighs rubbed raw, dripping Jefferson’s spunk all over the polished wood… but he can’t stop that, either.

And just when Jefferson opens his mouth to speak, offering Hamilton a charade of a grin, poised to say something sarcastic and cutting as always –

Hamilton sits wildly upright at his desk, blinking rapidly and gripping the arms of his chair. He’s breathing hard, and the muscles in his belly are still taut with the sweet agony of an orgasm he didn’t really get to feel outside of dreamland. But there’s a damp spot spreading across the front of his pants, so he’s lucky that the office is empty now, that everyone’s gone home. And he’d be pissed that nobody else who was working late thought to wake him before leaving, but there’s too much a sense of gratitude in him that nobody is around to witness him having a wet dream like a fucking teenager.

Hamilton stares across the room at Jefferson’s empty desk, tries to place himself on it like he was a moment ago in his dream, tries to imagine himself writhing under Jefferson and – disgustingly enough – wishing that Jefferson would love him. _Christ_ , Hamilton thinks. _Can’t even control yourself in a dream. You know better to think Jefferson would bother with rimming you before he fucked you. Know better than to let him fuck you bare like that, own that much of you._

But even still, Hamilton has sweat on his brow and his lips are wet from running his tongue over them in anticipation, in desperation. And he thinks that if he plays it the right way, he can plant an idea in Jefferson’s mind about taking Hamilton over his desk, can make him think it was his idea all along. Because sitting outside of the heat of the moment, Hamilton is definitely too proud to beg – but not too proud to set this up to go in his favour. 

Hamilton stands on weak and shaking knees, pulls his jacket from the back of his chair and folds it over one arm, casually holds it in front of him to hide the mess he’s made in case he runs into anyone in the parking garage from one of the other offices upstairs. And as he passes by Jefferson’s desk, he runs his fingers along the top and smiles, cheeks flushed with excitement and a modicum of shame – just not enough to stop him from plotting, from writing out this script, from taking his dream and making it reality.


End file.
